Being Good

Hi there. My name is Maureen Wambui and I’m a Christian. I love the Lord Jesus Christ as my personal Saviour. I go to church every Sunday. Sometimes I just don’t want to leave the house…

Source: Being Good


Being Good

Hi there. My name is Maureen Wambui and I’m a Christian. I love the Lord Jesus Christ as my personal Saviour.

I go to church every Sunday. Sometimes I just don’t want to leave the house. When it rains, I just want to burrow deeper under the covers. I leave immediately the service is over. I don’t stick around for the meetings and youth things. Sometimes I feel guilty, but then I remember how awkward and out of place I always feel when I’m around them. We are not friends.

I’m supposed to be a good Christian girl.

I have a tattoo. My parents will probably perform an exorcism when they find out. No, the devil didn’t make me do it. No, I was not held at gunpoint. No, it wasn’t influence from my ‘ bad’ friends. Actually I was the first to get inked among my group of close friends. I knew what I was doing. I did my research and made an informed decision. Yes,I read that Bible verse but I don’t believe I did anything wrong.

I have three piercings. Don’t worry, they are all in my ears. As common as that is, it makes me unique.

I’m not a blind follower. I question everything,I do my research and I follow my heart.

I am not afraid of learning. I read every material, look under every stone and try to untangle every thread. Curiosity is my drug of choice.

I love to read,but I do not always read the Bible. I use my words, but I do not always write about God.

When I sing, the words are not always to praise God. My playlist has more worldly songs.

Sometimes I speak too quickly and judge too harshly. At other times I ignore another’s pain and become selfish. At times the Lord asks me to walk to the right with Him but I still go left out of some misguided notion of independence.

When I pray, I do it quietly. I don’t speak in tongues and I don’t have visions. When they tell me to fight the devil and declare war on the enemy, I bow my head and do so quietly. I never shout because it’s confrontational and I hate conflict. I believe that God still hears my small voice.

Regardless of tribe, race, gender, sexual preference and religion, all of us are equal. I will not hate because I’m told to, that this is what I’m ‘supposed’ to do. I refuse to hate.

I don’t always think pure thoughts. Sometimes I’m ugly and twisted inside. Sometimes it’s just a skin layer away.

I understand most curse words and I get dirty jokes.

I’ve made some questionable choices over the years. I will not apologize for doing what felt right at the time.

I’m human.

Hi there. My name is Maureen Wambui and I’m flawed. I love the Lord Jesus Christ as my personal Saviour. I am growing, forced to admit that I’m not perfect and can never be. I’m just a work in progress in pursuit of greater Grace.


I doubt you hear them, getting ever closer. Today must have been a good day. You got to do all your favorite things – have a drink or many with the boys, watch a game and spend time with your punching bag. I’m sorry, I meant spent time with your lovely wife.

How many times have I told you ‘ I’m sorry’ over the years? Paying for your mistakes and your twisted view of the world? I became a parrot, taught just two words. Words that were the difference between sleeping under the bed or sleeping outside like a dog. Words that were the difference between sleeping on an empty belly and getting a glass of water and a piece of stale bread to tide me over. It would be funny if it wasn’t so tragic.

Why did I let this go on for so long? This is the question I keep coming back to over and over again. I could say it was because I love you,but you beat that out of me. I have no other explanation for it. A coin flipped from one day to the next. Why did no one else see this monster, this imitation of a human being cloaked in a tar black aura?

You weren’t always like this. Can you even remember? I wasn’t always like this. Can you even remember? In those early days I would fall asleep asking myself why you seemed so interested in me. I was plain, I had no family, no money prospects and no connections. But you… when you walked into a room, women sat up straighter and men gave you their seats. Being with you was like being the third wheel on a date between you and your adoring public.

Maybe I should have noticed something was not right even then, but I was so desperate to belong. Maybe I was too eager to please, too willing to mold myself into the shape you wanted. Knowing what I know now, that must have called to you like a siren song.

Do you know that I believed you the first time when you said it was all an accident and it wouldn’t happen again? That was three years ago. I ended up on the floor, saying sorry,through a mouthful of blood and broken teeth,for something you’d done to me.

How did you do it? What sort of sorcery was this that you had me under? Do you know I used to count the minutes till your return home so that I could make myself scarce? How did you always manage to find me? As you beat me, you would also hold me and tell me you love me. As you broke me some more, you would beg me not to leave. Like a tape set on rewind, we would go through the same motions tomorrow.

I guess you got numb. You no longer needed a reason to paint me black and blue. You didn’t really care what you took. Well, congratulations. You took everything from me. I hope that makes you feel proud of yourself.

Are you finally happy, I wonder.

They’re at the door now. I can see your eyes slowly fight gravity and open. You give me a bleary eyed stare, but before you can speak they break open the door.

Let them see you, tall and handsome with bloodshot eyes, torn and dirty clothes and bloody and swollen knuckles. Let them see me huddled in the corner in a pool of my own blood, with one black eye and a swollen jaw. Let them see the pattern of my blood when I crawled over to you when you were out of it, and took your phone to call for help.

I hope they take you away forever. I can feel your eyes on me. Good. Look at the phone in my hand. Look at our child on the floor. Our precious and innocent child.

How dare you look at me like I’ve done something wrong! Did you think I would never tell, that I would be afraid forever? You shouldn’t have taken everything.

I’ve heard it said that love is blind, I didn’t know it was supposed to be dumb and deaf also.

Pepo Nyeusi

” The devil is a spirit. His work is to steal, kill and destroy. Since we cannot see him, he uses people to do his dirty work,and boy, does he like light skinned minions!”

I’ve been told a lot of things over the years due to my skin, assumptions have been made, but I have to admit that being called the devil incarnate was a shocker.

I’m a light skinned lady. The Kenyan ‘scientific’ term for that is rangi ya thao. I did not choose to be the way I am. I was born into a time when everyone wanted to look like me, and those who couldn’t hated me. I was born into a time when people felt threatened by the color of my skin and refused to look beyond that. I was born into a time when my color was set apart as a collector’s item, in the same way that others collect ivory and guns.See, they all want a piece of this color, this color I did not choose.

” Kwani msupa kama wewe hukosa pesa kweli?” They will ask me when I tell them I’m broke. ” Ai,hizo ni mauongo. Dame yellow yellow kama wewe hawezi kosa kamtu. Kazi tu ni kujipanga. ” They’ll finish with this statement, not knowing they have insulted me. Apparently, my skin color guarantees me a lifetime of raining men. Why struggle to get anything by myself when I can live like a queen holding court over her admirers?

Sadly as a lady, and a light skinned one at that, it is doubly assumed that I slept my way to my every success.So what if I won some award? I probably slept with the judges. So what if I graduated? I probably slept with the lecturers. So what if I can quote some Shakespeare? Heck,I probably slept with him, too.

People refuse to accept any other narrative about my color, this color I did not choose. Every day they spew their vitriol about ‘my kind’ as if we should walk around under a shroud. Every day they forget that it’s what beneath the skin that counts, and that my color, this color I did not choose, will one day fade. What then will they be left with to say?

See, if I did even half of the things they say  I’ve done or I’m ‘supposed’ to do,they’d be left speechless. After all, the devil made me do it.